The Survivors
by sakurasencha
Summary: Modern AU. After a fatal car crash kills Matthew and Sybil, Mary and Tom look for ways to move forward. Ch2 - Edith has some important news for Mary.
1. Chapter 1

_This is my first DA fic in a loooong time, and it's actually one that I've posted on tumblr before. I decided to polish it up and post it here as well. I have ideas for future chapters for this AU, although I'm not fully sold on continuing it just at this moment._

 _Big shout out to foojules for being an awesome in general and a wonderful beta in particular._

* * *

His first mistake was ordering for her.

"We'll start with the uni risotto."

And he didn't have the good grace to inflect his words into a question, either. Nor did he raise a querying eyebrow, or pause for Mary to smilingly agree. Charles Blake wasted no breath as he sallied into the fine details of her dinner order – _"prawn and caviar sunomono, followed by the_ _foie gras makizushi"_ – punctuated by a nod to the waiter who snapped up her menu before she'd even had a chance to open it.

On her best days Mary Crawley was an icicle, cold and sharp, yet possessing a beauty impossible to ignore, whatever the danger. At this moment her piercing stare went straight for his jugular.

Yet he remained undaunted, his preening smile firmly intact. "You look displeased, Mary. Have I upset you in some way?"

"Greatly."

"Don't tell me you don't like sea urchin?" He chuckled, his head shaking lightly. One dark curl fell over his eyes.

"What I don't like is presumption."

"I've been to this restaurant countless times. The first thing you mentioned when we stepped foot in this place was your lack of experience with Japanese cuisine. I meant no presumption. I merely thought you'd appreciate the guidance of a…." He swept both hands inward, into his fresh-from-the-city tailored suit. "Connoisseur."

He fairly reeked of luxury and self-possession. _So unlike Matthew_. "I like being consulted, not guided. Or dismissed." Red lacquered fingernails thrummed against the table. "I like choosing myself what I'm going to eat for dinner."

"Fair enough." He lifted his sake cup. " _Kampai_ , Lady Mary." He took a swift drink and tilted the small _o_ _choko_ in her direction. "And you'll pick dessert."

Mary stifled a smile. She hadn't noticed before, but he had dimples in that boyish grin.

 _Damn._

He got her to like him.

That was his second mistake.

* * *

The night was pockmarked with yellow pools of lamplight. Cars swept down the street. Mary's keychain was causing a ruckus outside the door, metal tinkling in her palm as she searched for the right one. Whether a habit or a compulsion, Mary kept these fixtures of her life – keys for the office, keys for the Abbey, keys for her assortment of abodes – on a single, groaning ring that never left her pocket or handbag.

 _(Mary, let me drive._

 _Nonsense, Matthew. I've already got the keys.)_

She turned the lock and pushed against the door, easing her way into the dimly lit house. Mary Josephine Crawley, tailored and buttoned into the most expensive outfits London had to offer, gave the impression that her home must cater to the same immaculate tastes. But the explosion of books, toys, and clothing that littered the floor like shrapnel told a different tale.

Mary frowned. _He never makes them clean up_. "Tom?" she said in an undertone.

There was no reply. A faint glow beckoned her, the row of track lights beaming down onto the kitchen sink. She moved towards it and saw the back of his dark blonde head, headphones in place as he finished the washing up.

The volume was loud enough to hear a bit of the buzzing overflow. _I'm Gwen Dawson, with the BBC_. Mary flicked on the living room light.

Tom caught movement from the corner of his eye. His head twisted to meet her smile. "Mary." He shut off the water, dried his hands, and pulled the buds from his ears. "You're home early. How was the date?"

"You first." She removed her heels, raising each foot in turn, then set the shoes aside and padded over, one hand massaging the back of her neck. "What do you have to report?"

"George spewed up on my best shirt. But don't worry; he's cleaned up and asleep and I've already gone through your wallet for the money to buy a new one."

She laughed lightly, her head vanishing into the pantry amid the sounds of distinct rummaging. "Didn't you just eat?" he asked with a smile.

"One doesn't eat at those kinds of establishments."

"What else is 'one' supposed to do at a bloody restaurant?"

Her head popped out. She had settled on a bag of crisps, and ripped them open. "Taste. Savor. Nothing so barbaric as digesting." She popped one into her mouth. "I'm not even sure they had a loo," she said with a crunch and a dry laugh, that bob of black hair shimmering. "And what about Sybbie? How was her night?"

"Oh, she was out like a light after her fifth episode of Chuggington."

"What have I told you about letting them watch too much tv?"

"It's educational, Mary! She already knows more about trains than I do about cars."

She flailed him with a severe eyebrow on her way to her bedroom. When she emerged some time later, makeup scrubbed off and clad in a pair of printed silk pajamas, he was back at the washing up.

Mary flopped onto the couch. Her body sagged against the leather, one arm laid over her eyes. These were the moments she showed her age. "Would you like some help with that?" she asked, the other arm half-heartedly extended.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Thanks, but I'm almost done." She was already knocking back an Ambien with a glass of water. "And don't think you're off the hook. I still want to know how you and this Mr. Blake got on."

"It wasn't awful."

Tom snorted. "High praise, for you."

"It wasn't _very_ awful. But he was arrogant. And he asked me about, as he put it, 'the nature' of our relationship."

"You and me?" he asked. She nodded. "And what did you tell him?" He grinned. "That I was your chauffeur?"

"Well. You did use to drive our town car."

"I drove _a_ town car, occasionally for you, and _years_ ago." The dishes done, Tom hit the lights in the kitchen. Mary drew her feet in as he sat beside her. "So what did you tell him?"

She traced the rim of her glass with one finger. "The truth. What else would I say? I live – platonically, I emphasized that –with my late sister's husband and our respective children. It's not the most orthodox arrangement, but it's hardly scandalous."

"And what did he say?"

"He found it strange, at first. Romantic, in a sense." Tom quirked an eyebrow. "Not between me and you, of course not! Only that…" She tilted her head. "Living with each other like this...in some odd way it keeps Matthew and Sybil in our lives, doesn't it?"

"It does."

Mary's eyes fluttered. The somnolence was reaching for her, engulfing her like a slowly rising tide, waiting for her to give in. But she wanted to keep the moment alive a little longer. She couldn't do this with anyone else but Tom. Talk about them. Talk about Matthew and Sybil.

( _Really, Mary, you must let me drive!_

 _I told you no! Now be a good boy and get in the passenger seat._ )

"Remember how everyone told us moving in together would be such a mistake?" she said. "That'd we'd never be able to move out of the past? But Charles feels quite differently. He said that sometimes staying exactly where you are is the best way to move forward, the best way to cope. You're the only other person who's understood that, and to hear someone else say it…" She opened her eyes. He was staring at her intently. "I was touched."

Tom smiled in his triumphant, maddening way.

Mary swatted at him. "What?"

"Nothing." He pointed a finger at her. "But I can see what you're trying to hide."

"Which is?"

"That you're smitten."

Mary narrowed her eyes. Her arm snaked behind her, and in a flat second a sofa pillow smacked into his face. "What is it with the men in my life and their disgusting presumption?"

"Calm down!" A wrestling match ensued. Tom won and flung the pillow far out of arm's reach. "Easy, Mary, it's not like I'm planning your wedding!"

"Then exactly what _are_ you doing?"

"All I mean is that you're smiling and you had a good time and it's a _good_ thing."

"Is that so?" Her face softened. "Then why do you have that look? Your sad happy face? The one you have whenever Sybbie does something frightfully precocious?"

Tom laughed. Was he that transparent? While Mary would quickly confess she had the opacity of marble, she enjoyed likening Tom to cut crystal, multi-faceted and reflecting _everything_ inside. "Dunno. I guess looking at you, come off from a date with a man you might actually like – it's just hit me that it's going to happen one day."

"What?"

"You're going to move on. Find someone else. And we…." His voice buckled. "It won't be like this anymore." Mary was quiet. Tom rose. He began pacing, hands haggling with the air. "You know, you're just...you're better at this than me."

"Better at what?"

"Meeting people, dating. All the things everyone keeps telling me I should be doing."

"Would you stop running circles in the carpet? Come here. Come sit down. Good. Now look me in the eyes, because this is important: The truth, Tom, is that I'm not _better_ at it. I'm just _doing_ it. And you'll have to as well, eventually."

He didn't respond. And she didn't push. They sat companionably in a draping kind of silence, like a soft blanket shared between them. Tom rubbed his eyes. Mary drifted. Soon she'd be caught in the dreamless web of a medicated sleep. He never took the stuff despite his frequent bouts of insomnia. Dreams were the only place she ever spoke to him anymore.

( _Matthew, you know it's useless to argue with my sister. Get in the passenger seat, I'll get in behind you._ )

How many times had he dreamed that a three second decision didn't end in utter ruin?

Mary rose with a yawn. "'Night, Tom. You've done your duty tonight. I'll get up with the kids in the morning."

He watched her stagger into her bedroom. She wasn't yet ready for the leap of recovery, but in time –

 _She'll get there._

And so would he. Kicking and screaming, she'd drag him there. The pair of them, broken down, immobile. But together they were stronger.

 _Survivors._

* * *

 _Thanks for reading! Feedback appreciated :)_


	2. Chapter 2

I had this idea for a second chapter and finally wrote it. Submitted to C/P's MOC challenge for January.

* * *

 **Chinese Take-away**

Mornings in the Branson-Crawley household were nothing short of outright war.

Sybbie began the assault early, a six am invasion into Tom's bedroom. She flung herself, missile-like, into the still sleeping form of her father. "Guess what, Daddy? I'm awaaaaake!" The explosion of giggles and incoherent broguery triggered a fusillade of shrieks from the nursery. Mary, staggering upright on four hours of intermittent sleep, breached the enemy territory with eyes half-closed.

"What is it, darling?" she said on a yawn.

Baby George gave his demands: milk, breakfast, and above all to be removed from the prison camp his mother called a crib. She picked him up just as Tom popped through the door, shirtless and brushing his teeth. "Is it just me, or does it start earlier every day?"

Mary grimaced. "By this time next year they'll be waking us up before we even put them to bed."

Tom and Mary, lacking any reinforcements but their own ingenuity and grit, embarked on a strategic guerrilla campaign to wrangle both kids into day clothes, combed hair, brushed teeth, and booster seats at the breakfast table. By seven, Mary had already changed two nappies, finished a load of laundry, and was forced to change her outfit three times due to the combination of George's distaste for mashed carrots and his uncannily precise aim.

Mary could only grin. "I'm not mad, you know. The truth is, I never liked that angora cardigan much anyway." She finished buttoning her cleanly pressed blazer and leaned over to whisper, "A gift from your Aunt, whose so-called taste, you'll remember, forced you into that farce of a Christmas jumper for the family photo last year." George smashed a fist onto his tray at the indignity. "I feel exactly the same way, darling." She tapped him on the nose.

A cup of coffee and the liberating effects of the sun had brought much relief to Mary's mood. She was at peace, eager for the workday, and with drop-off only half an hour away felt free and clear of anymore danger.

"By the way, Mary, have you heard from Edith, lately?"

Mary frowned into her mug. The coffee was too cold. The sky a dreary grey. And was it possible for one human being to have _that_ many meetings scheduled? "No, I haven't." Leave it to a mention of her irascible younger sister to get her raising the white flag. Mary swallowed down a bitter sip. "Why do you ask?"

"You should ring her." Tom's hands were loaded with lunch boxes as he closed the refrigerator with his foot. "Have a chat."

"Why?"

"I spoke to her the other day. She's not been well."

Mary smiled. "Oh?"

"Don't sound so bloody pleased. It's not nice."

"Since when have I ever cared about being nice?"

Tom graced her with one of his _Oh, Mary_ looks, a variation of what Sybil used to use to shame her into good behavior during family functions. He tapped his watch. "Drop off in twenty minutes."

Mary carried George on her hip as Sybbie skipped behind her father. Tom stuffed the lunch boxes into the appropriate bags, the children into the appropriate car seats. Once buckled, Tom and Mary held their daily war council outside the waiting van.

"Sybbie's pick up is at three, George half three."

"I have a late client lunch," Mary replied. "I can get them after that. But at five o'clock -"

"I know, the board meeting. Bring them both to the office. Nothing but research for an article today, and I can do that from home."

"What about dinner?" Mary paused. "Charles was wondering –"

"Tell him no. I've got that thing at eight, remember?"

"Yes." Mary rummaged through her purse for the keys. "You'll stay long enough to help me get the kids down?"

"Deal." Tom's mobile buzzed at his hip.

Mary frowned. "When are you going to lose the holster?"

"As soon as it stops annoying you." He checked his message and smiled. "And about Edith –"

Mary shook the keys at Tom. "Not another word! You know I'm not going to ring her, so you may as well stop hounding me."

Tom grinned. "I was just going to say not to bother ringing her up.

"Really?"

"Really." His grinned widened. "Because I've already invited her over for dinner, and she's agreed to come."

One dark, dangerous eyebrow lifted. "Tonight?"

"Tonight."

The other eyebrow followed suit, dark eyes glittering with controlled wrath. "What was it you called it? 'A thing at eight'?" A lesser man would have turned to stone under her glare. "How convenient."

Fortunately for Tom, the years he was cast as the "impoverished degenerate" who snatched Sybil Crawley out of good society had inured him to Mary's Medusa-like gaze. "I admit nothing." But his smile admitted everything. "She wants to know what to bring."

Mary relented with a sigh. She looked once to the sky, then back again to the insufferable smirk which nearly always won her over. "Really, Tom, why do you do this to me?"

"For your own good, and you know it."

"Fine." She climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine, and backed out of the drive. On the street, she rolled down the window and called, "Tell her anything but pizza."

In the wake of screeching tires and the scent of burning rubber, Tom grabbed his mobile and began texting, grinning like the cat that got the cream. "Chinese take away it is."

* * *

Mary, much to Tom's annoyance, was a talk-walker. She was of the breed who could never sit still during a phone call, but must pace about, mobile glued to one ear, that clear, precise voice rising and falling as she weaved in and out of rooms. Tonight, it was stripped of the stinging edges that accompanied a business call, replaced by a hue of playfulness that splashed over every word, like secrets exchanged in the dark.

"No, no. Tom's stepping out for the night, so I won't be able to make dinner." She paused. "Yes." She fought back a smile. "No." Another pause, and this time the smile won out. "Really, Charles, I think you know what my answer to _that_ will be." Then she laughed. "I absolutely wouldn't, and I'm offended you even offered at all!" She looked up as Tom cleared his throat. "Sorry, Charles, but I need to go. No, no, it's just Tom. He's idling by the door like a dog needing to be relieved. Yes, I'll ring you later. Goodbye."

"You're always so flattering of me," Tom deadpanned.

"I'm as nice to you as you deserve." She set her mobile down on a table and stuck a finger into his chest. "Tricking me into dinner with Edith – I don't think I've ever felt so abused, and I have Edith as a sister."

Tom pulled a jumper over his head, then checked his hair in the hallway mirror. "You're always exaggerating when it comes to Edith. Both of you do. I've never seen anything worse between the two of you than mean snarking and a few mild pranks."

"Yes, but you only came into our lives, what? Eight years ago?" Her eyes gleamed over and she smiled. "Has it really been eight years since you drove us home from the Skelton's place? I remember I wore my blue silk that night. And Sybil was incorrigible, as usual." She shook her head. "It feels like much longer."

"Or much shorter." Tom could never quite decide. His time with Sybil stretched and shortened like a rubber band, and sometimes he didn't know how to hold onto the bending memories without feeling like he was about to snap.

Mary waved a hand. "Anyway, you weren't around for our childhood. Those were the really gruesome years."

Tom swallowed. "I've got to go." He fumbled for his wallet and keys, thinking of Sybil as a child, shoved them both into his pocket with all the years he had missed, all the years he would miss, the misplaced and the stolen. Then he kissed Mary on the cheek. "Do your best to get along. Please?"

The door shut with a soft click. Mary wandered through the apartment. Toys to be picked up. Dishes from dinner. The never-ending mound of laundry. She picked at her to-do list here and there. It kept her awake, kept her mind in the present lest it wander over the graveyards. Light dusting on the furniture. A quick scrub of the toilet. On the way to the laundry room she swept past Tom's door and the shrine that was his room. It was always shut, always sacred, an array of pictures and mementos lining every surface. Mary never went inside his room. She kept one picture of Matthew, but not on her night table. It sat on the high dresser, tilted away from the bed, right next to the ache in her heart that was always there and was never to be spoken of aloud.

She touched Tom's closed door, looked down the hall where the children slept.

The doorbell rang.

* * *

The General Tso's was too soggy, the sweet and sour too heavy on red dye number five. Wave after wave of Mary's contempt seemed to roll over Edith with every tainted bite.

"Good weather we're having, don't you think, Mary?"

"Hm."

What ever induced her to get takeaway from Moy's out on Barrack street? Edith loved the little dingy Chinese place and rather lived off the kind of food served at such grease pits. But surely she should have realized it would never befit Queen Mary's tastes, a woman who never glanced at something but to disapprove of it.

Just another mistake which she was sure to make the family rounds, and which Edith would never hear the end of.

The sisters sat across from each other on either side of the walnut table in the dining room. It boasted a sinuous and provocative living edge, and was finished to such a glossy sheen Edith could nearly see her face in it. To her eyes, there was nothing very inspiring in the blurred reflection. Mary may be the moon to Sybil's sun, but Edith, with her shock of red hair and awkward ways, never considered herself as cresting the celestial heights of her sisters.

Mary set her chopsticks down and rose from her chair. "Thank you for dinner, Edith. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, thank you." She cleared her throat, made a show of looking about the room. "I like what you and Tom have done to the place."

Mary turned on the electric kettle and reached for the tea box, face impassive. "We haven't changed much of anything since we first moved in."

Edith shrugged. "I suppose it's been awhile."

"Not since Sybbie's first birthday, I believe." Mary pulled down two teacups from the shelf. "Black tea or green?"

"Black, thank you. Was it really that long ago?"

"Yes. I remember it quite well."

So did Edith. The stares and accusations. One year since Matthew and Sybil's death. _Don't pretend you're not happy, Edith. My misery was always your greatest achievement._ "I suppose she must be quite big, now. George too."

Steam rose from the cups as Mary brought them over. "They're as big as they should be." She sat down and pushed one cup towards Edith. "Cream and sugar."

Edith took the sugar bowl. Two lumps and a splash of cream. "I'd like to see them more. You know, I keep meaning to call –"

"No you don't." Mary stirred in her cream, tapped her spoon twice against the edge of the porcelain, and took a bare sip. "Let's be honest. You have no interest in my life, anymore than I have an interest in yours."

"You're right." Edith smiled. She flung up her hands. "I don't know why I bother. Nothing I say or don't say will ever be enough for you, will it?" Mary said nothing. "Just what I thought. But I'm not surprised. Why should I be, after everything you've done?"

"You mean after everything done to me?"

"You really think you're blameless? I loved Anthony!"

Mary raised one shoulder. "So?"

"So? He left me because of what you said!"

"You were in High School, Edith. He was almost thirty. If anything, I did you a favor." Her face grew hard, her voice a bed of needles. "And while we're on the topic of things said and done twenty years ago, should I mention the rumors you spread about me and Kemal? Should I mention everything they cost me?"

"That job was nothing. Just a springboard for the career you have now. They didn't cost you anything important. They didn't cost you the man you love!"

"No, they didn't. And yet, I don't have him anyway. So you see, you've beat me in the end."

"It was never a competition, Mary."

"It was always a competition. You made it that way. You and your jealousy, always crying about how Mama and Papa loved me better."

"Enough." Edith raised a hand. "Please, I didn't come here tonight to drag out our old battles. I've come here tonight because there's something I need to say. There's something I need to say, and I don't want to lose my chance to say it because neither of us can stop talking about ancient history."

Mary leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "I'm listening."

"Mary. I'm pregnant." Edith laughed as Mary's eyes grew wide. "There. You have it. And before you ask, yes it's Michael's, and no, he wants nothing to do with it." Mary made no comment, but there was victory in those dark eyes. Edith bowed her head, hid her face and the scorn of her tears with her hands. "Now you know. Now you know who the real winner is." The chair screeched as Edith pushed herself back from the table. "Thank you for tea."

"Wait." Mary clasped a hand onto Edith's arm. "Sit down, for heaven's sake." Edith complied. "His wife still doesn't know?"

"I called her." Edith took back her hand and wiped her eyes. "I thought if I finally told her the truth, he'd be willing to make a clean break with her."

"And?"

"I got a curt text from him, and haven't heard from either one of them since."

"And Tom knows, obviously."

"He was the first one I called."

"And Mama and Papa?"

"Of course they know."

Mary frowned. "Then I'm literally the last person you told?"

"Oh, and I suppose I'm the first person you ring when you have big news."

"Fair point." Her eyes focused again on Edith. But it wasn't the usual look of impatience and distaste. Her stare was penetrating, like someone reading a new language. "What did Mama and Papa say"

"They're disappointed, of course. They think I'm being foolish."

"Keeping it?"

Edith smiled. "You would have enjoyed watching them interroge me: 'What will everyone say? How will you manage? I hope you don't expect us to provide for everything.'" "She waved a hand in the air, as if clearing away bad air. "But I want this baby. Even if Michael doesn't. Even if he never leaves his wife. Even if you and Mama and Papa don't approve."

Mary shrugged. "Then have the baby."

Edith's mouth fell open. Was she serious? "Are you serious?"

"Have the baby. Buy a pram." She took a sip. "Become a mother. But stop moaning about everyone being against you, and for heaven's sake, have some more MuShu. You're eating for two." She held out the plate.

Edith shook her head, as if dazed. "I'm sorry, is this Mary Crawley talking to me?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "Are you going to eat or not?"

"Well. I am knackered." Edith took the plate piled with pork, bean sprouts, sauce, and unfathomable amounts of grease, and shoved in a forkful."I never expected this from you."

"Never expected what?"

"Compassion. Sympathy. Normal human emotion."

"I suppose I do like to take my heart out once in awhile and give it a good thaw."

Edith chewed for a few moments. In the cozy setting of tea and Chinese takeaway and Mary treating her more like a sister than a threat, she could almost believe they were friends. "But I do wonder sometimes about the future. If I can handle everything on my own. I have some savings and my job pays tolerably well, but daycare and clothing and the expense of a child…"

"It's not shameful to ask for help. Not everything has to be done by yourself."

"See, now I know you've been replaced by an evil doppelgänger." She tilted or head with a quizzical look. "Or in your case, would it be the good doppelgänger?"

"Very funny. But I'm not a pod person, and I'm not joking, either." She leaned forward. "Look around, Edith. I live in a tornado of toys and diapers and laundry – the bloody laundry."

Edith laughed. "Tom's really rubbing off on you, isn't he?"

"He probably is. But that's all right. Do you really think I could get by all on my own? Without him?"

"I don't know." She fidgeted with her fork. "The truth is, there's not much I think you can't do."

"Edith, there's no possible way I would have managed after Matthew's death without Tom by my side, every step of the way. Being a mother, it's…." She stopped and folded her hands on the table. "Without support, it's impossible. No one can do it alone. Not me. Not you. And that's why Tom will be there for you. And so will I."

"For scolds and reprimands? To be Mama and Papa's mouthpiece?"

"For anything you want." Mary looked pained when she added, "I'll even throw you a shower."

"Would you?" Edith's smile grew distant. "Sybil promised me once that she would do that. I was twelve, and we'd just got back from Aunt Susan's shower for little Rose, do you remember? 'I'll throw a shower for you, Edith,' she said. 'For both of you.' And you said –"

"That I would never have a baby, thank you very much. Yes. I remember. Sybil promised so many things…." She swallowed. "Well. Maybe between the two of us, we can manage to fulfill some of them."

Edith wiped at her eyes. That day was vibrant in her mind, the way Sybil's hair shook when she laughed or spoke or did anything at all. What a life she had been. What a life she still was. "She always held us together, didn't she?"

And without the fog of grief that had surrounded that first year of Matthew's death, it occured to Mary that Edith had also suffered the pain of a losing a sister. That she suffered the loss of something else now. And that in some ways she was no different to Tom and herself, that she, too, was a survivor.

Mary sipped her tea. "She still does."


End file.
